CHAPTER 1 - THEN

DEAN

Sam wasn't just better than me. He was always fucking perfect. A flawless slice of All-American apple pie. His easy 4.0 GPA never faltered, no matter how much we got shoved around. By the time he was 13, the kid could damn near outrun me with those mile long legs of his. Not quite, but I always had to work harder than I should have to leave his ass in the dust.

Me? I was what I've always been. Nothing special. And still, he would gaze up at me with all that little kid adoration. No matter how much or in what ways I'd fucked up, Sam was always there, looking up to me.

If you ever had anyone that good look at you the way he used to look at me, you wouldn't judge. You might even understand how I could do what I did.

SAM

Truth be told, my brother was a little bit ridiculous, but in the best way possible. For one thing, he swaggered around like he was God's greatest gift to the planet. But he wasn't even half the asshole he pretended to be. That's how he shielded himself from people and their assumptions. They'd take one look at that pretty face and decide he was either a jerk or something to be played with. They'd see our threadbare clothes and try to make us into some charity case. So, Dean strolled around with his chest poked out. He laughed too loud with a bawdy joke for every occasion.

But I knew him. The dyslexia didn't make him dumb. The night terrors didn't make him any less brave. None of his stupid throwaway girlfriends knew about that. When he got nabbed for stealing candy bars or sodas, it was never for any of them. It was always for me.

Dean had every right to strut. And I kind of loved to see him like that, even if it was a put on. As far as I was concerned, he was God's gift. To me.

DEAN

Other perfect things about Sammy-boy: he always tasted like a Snickers bar. He always smelled like he'd been running for hours, even if he had just been lying around reading all day. Boy sweat and chocolate. I never said I was't a pervert.

The way he felt was fucking amazing. Like nothing and nobody else.

And when my baby brother came, he was way too loud. It used to send a surge up my spine like you wouldn't believe. It was the kind of thing you could lose yourself in, if you weren't careful. It was just too loud.

I'm not blaming him. I know better than that. I know the whole thing was completely my own fault. I'm just saying. He was a loud, little fucker.

"Sammy, shhh." I hissed, like that was going to help.

Something had to be done to muffle all that obscene gasping and groaning. God damn. He was almost screaming. Usually, a sock shoved between his teeth would do the trick. But of course, on this particular occasion, I had forgotten to bring one, so I just covered his open mouth with my palm. Hated to do it, too. He was so fucking hot like that.

Those slender fingers clawed deliciously at my back. His body rippled like a snake and then, went suddenly rigid beneath me. Sam's slick trickled hot all over my grip. When he threw back his head, I clamped my teeth down over that salty throat like a vampire. He shuddered so pretty, "Fuck, Dean."

The kid loved that shit. Liked it rough.

I had already come, hard, coating up his insides good. I tried to pull out, but he tilted his slim hips up, chasing mine. He clasped his ankles behind my back so that I couldn't get away.

"Well, shit, boy." I slapped his thigh and chuckled when he whimpered.

One smooth, smallish hand stroked my face. Fingers ghosted over my forehead and down the tip of my nose. The other massaged my neck as he gazed up with those sweet, innocent eyes. Still catching his breath, he smiled, "You love me?"

He only asked because he already knew the answer. "All the way, Sammy. All the fucking way."

I burrowed my face in his neck and tugged the blanket up over our heads. He laughed and nipped at my chin.

"Want me to tell you ghost story?"

"Shut up." He tweaked my ass.

He used to love that when he was a little kid. Really little. We'd curl up under the blankets in whatever shithole motel our dad had left us in. I would tell him a ghost story. Or go over the plot of some movie we had both seen on late night TV. Hell, he even liked fairy tales, as long as they were about us slaying dragons and living happily ever after.

"Too stuffy." Sam pulled the covers down so we could actually breathe again.

I just lay there basking in that warm, earthy Sammy smell. I felt like a pig up to my ears in shit. Some things are just inexplicably good. And Sam? Sam was always impossibly good. Like blow my fucking mind, driven to distraction good.

Perfect. Laying there, fucked out, with those long arms, coltish legs, his tight hole still wrapped around me. When I tried to pull away from the toothpasty kiss, he caught my bottom lip between his clever teeth. I could feel him grinning against my mouth like cat caught the canary. So sweet. So good. So impossible. I was so completely lost in that boy, it didn't make any sense.

Which is the only reasonable explanation for why I didn't hear the knob click or the door creak open. "You boys allri…"

Light flooded into the bedroom. My heart sank into the pit of my gut and stopped beating for long enough to wish I was dead. In one hand, our foster father, Mr. Singer held his shotgun. Not a threat. It just hung low, like he was satisfied that there was no immediate danger. He'd gone looking for a burglar and found… well.

"Get offa him, Dean, you little pervert." The old man fisted his free hand in my hair and hurled me across the room.

Sam vanished under the cover.
I can't say it didn't cross through my mind that Mr. Singer might drag me out back and put a bullet in my head. But he just punched the shit out of me.

Still on the floor, I scrambled and pressed my back up against the far wall. I shielded my limp dick with one hand, even though it was way too late for modesty. Or for the stuttering explanations I was trying to come up with.

Mr. Singer just kept shaking his head with his fist curled and his nose turned clear up to the ceiling. "What the hell is wrong with you, boy?"

His wife showed up in the door frame in one of those frumpy, old lady night gowns and some kind of bonnet on her head. Under normal circumstances, Sam and I would have had a field day with that. But she was scowling down on me like I was the spawn of Satan itself. And somehow, it just wasn't all that fucking funny.

"What do you think you're doing?" Mr. Singer, again with the questions.

It couldn't have been more obvious what I was doing. What could I possibly say? What would you say if you had just been busted fucking your 13 year old baby brother?

SAM

I just hid. I didn't know what else to do. I just cowered there under that blanket, like we were under a fricking zombie attack. It was too hot under there. Too stuffy. Not enough air. Not under the blanket. Not in the whole world.

It was too hot, but I was shivering. Ice water was leaking out of my pores.

I didn't know what was going to come next. I just knew it wouldn't be good. If I had had any idea at all, I would have done something. I would have done anything in my power not to let it happen.

I hid like a coward while they took my brother away. I can't see anything topping that as biggest regret of my life.